Dance With Me On This Razor's Edge
by nrynmrth
Summary: It is the anniversary of Ian's death and Alex feels broken. Oneshot. For SpyFest 2016, Week One.


A/N: Life is pretty hectic right now, what with different groups of cousins coming to stay, but I couldn't pass up the chance to respond to SpyFest 2016's wonderful Week One prompt of 'a song t remember.' So this fic is loosely based on Florence and the Machine's song _Shake It Out_ , which is angsty and hopeful, just like I want this to be. _Loosely based_ , meaning that there aren't any actual song lyrics here, so don't give me any stuff about copyright infringement (seriously, copyright's some crazy crap, so don't yell at me when I've done nothing wrong).

Disclaimer: Alex Rider belongs to Anthony Horowitz (in other words, not me). _Shake It Out_ belongs to the wonderfully inspirational Florence and the Machine, for whom I have just discovered a love.

Hope you like it!

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The champagne flute he holds feels as out-of-place in his fingers as Alex does. He knows he doesn't _look_ out of place – he is a spy, after all, and a damn good one at that – but this grand ballroom _really_ isn't his scene. He would much rather be at home in Chelsea and drowning his sorrows in a glass of hard liquor than playing the part of a rich Russian art mogul, but duty calls, and as always, Alex is powerless to resist its pull (the MI6 can be _very_ persuasive).

Today, though, Alex almost had resisted the call to work that inevitably came. It had been exceptionally difficult to drag himself out of bed and into his elegant tuxedo suit and Italian leather shoes, because today is the anniversary of Ian's death and Alex feels broken. Regrets collect around him like old friends (isn't that what they are? God knows he doesn't have any other friends to compare them with). It's a day of 'should have, could have, would have,' of reliving his darkest moments; a day when he can see no way to prevent all of his ghouls coming out to play. He is visited by his demons, each with a different face (Ian. Yassen. _Julius_.), each wanting his own pound of flesh, slicing and tearing into him until he crumbles. But his employers are just as cruel as they've always been, and so Alex finds himself leaning against an elaborately papered wall, sipping champagne with an expression of polite boredom, the only evidence of his inner turmoil lurking deep in his eyes where it can't be seen.

He closes his eyes, fighting the memories that swamp him, and when he opens them again he's faced with a pair of knowing dark eyes and a smile that is both humorous and slightly dangerous. He raises an eyebrow at the woman before him, taking another sip of his drink as he waits for her to speak.

"What is a handsome man like yourself doing all alone on this _lovely_ occasion?" Her English is clearly accented, Eastern European at his best guess. He is unsurprised by her lack of introduction, donning his cover like a cloak around him, becoming Aleksander Ivanov in a flash.

"I have been waiting for the loveliest woman in the room to offer her my arm," he murmurs courteously to her, taking an almost unnoticeable breath to suppress the emotions echoing in his head.

"Oh?" Now it is her turn to raise a perfectly sculpted brow. "And have you found her?"

He smiles flirtatiously at her. "I believe I have."

"Then where is she?" she asks him in mock confusion. "Have you left her alone all this while?"

"Fishing for compliments would be unattractive on a woman less beautiful than you are…" his voice trails off suggestively, inviting her to fill the space in his words with a name, but to his slight surprise, she declines once more, returning his words with a statement of her own.

"As much as I appreciate the flattery, you are lying to me, dear sir."

"I assure you, I have not. That you should think such a thing…" his tone of offense is just as false as her earlier confusion, and he knows that she knows he is jesting, sparking his curiosity.

"My apologies," she replies coquettishly. "Might I repay you with a dance?"

He stiffens almost imperceptibly, suddenly swarmed with fragmented images of red-headed women and blond men teaching him in turns to square dance and waltz.

"Perhaps not, then…?" And he is jolted back to the present, dispelling the images with a shake of his head.

"Now, it seems, it is my turn to apologize. I am afraid that I am not a wonderful dancer…" A lie (Jack and Ian had made sure of that).

She smiled, a slight twist of the lips. "Ah, now you are lying to me. You are a wealthy man, and therefore you must know how to dance – it is your culture, is it not?"

"You have caught me, I am afraid. Yes, I do know how to dance – but I fear that I am in no mood to be of good company tonight." A shadow of the truth – Alex thinks that if he stops leaning on this wall, he might just collapse into a sobbing heap on the ground.

"Yes," she says to him, but there is something in her eyes that tells him that she has something more to say, as indeed she does. "It is difficult to dance with the devil on your back."

He stares at her, wondering how she knows what he feels – and then he realizes that he doesn't care. He doesn't care that this woman somehow can see past the carefully constructed mask to his true feelings, doesn't care that she can potentially destroy his cover and that there will be hell to pay with MI6 for allowing his guard to slip – no, he is caught in the moment.

"It is," he agrees, finding his tongue once more. "But it is always darkest before the dawn."

She flashes a brilliant smile at him. "Then dance with me."

It is then that he discovers that he is done with his aching, graceless heart, and he wants nothing more than to carve it out of his chest and rid himself of the remembrance that weighs him down – and so he does. He is not Aleksandr Ivanov, and he is not Alex Rider – he is simply a man taking the chance to dance with a beautiful woman. There are no obligations between them, no names or affiliations or employers. For one night, he can dance and drink champagne and relish the heady taste of transient freedom.

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